


Fates of the Bloodstained

by Grond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Being Gwindor is Suffering, Blood and Injury, Book: The Children of Húrin, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Edain, Elves, Even the Sword is Traumatized, First Age, Forests, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Gwindor is Trying His Best, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mostly Gen, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Suffering, Suicidal Thoughts, Swords, The Noldor, Trauma, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grond/pseuds/Grond
Summary: Gwindor of Nargothrond learned years ago that his fate was to be a sorrowful one, but now it is entangled with a new kind of misfortune: the destiny of Túrin. While leading the Man on their long journey to the Pools of Ivrin, Gwindor faces a future more desolate and strange than any he could have imagined—and the dangers of a land in the shadow of the Enemy.The lost adventure of Gwindor and Túrin in the wilderness.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion & Gwindor, Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar, Gwindor & Túrin Turambar
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12
Collections: Genuary 2021





	1. From the Gasping Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Edited to fix a few things—12/29/20

_Step. Another step. Keep going_. Gwindor had learned how to continue moving when his strength and will were spent and he had nothing left. It was a matter of resignation. He could focus without will, throwing himself mindlessly into the task at hand as he numbed himself to his own afflictions. It came down to a basic ability: endurance. He did not have to be great or strong or wise or clever. He could simply survive and go on. 

His mouth was dry, and his vision was hazy. His wounds, old and new, ached. Especially painful was what remained of his left arm. The wound was not poisoned, and it was well-bandaged with strips of cloth. Of that he was glad, but it was not an easy loss to bear. Now and then, he forgot himself and tried reaching out with the lost hand, only to be confronted anew by its absence. He stank of blood, but not only his own blood. Much of it belonged to the Man he brought with him and the Elf they had left behind. 

The gray dust of Anfauglith clung to him and to Túrin beside him. Gwindor would not waste time brushing it away. He knew from experience that it would cling to a living body for days, no matter what efforts were taken. It could not be easily escaped. Anfauglith was a place that took hold of you, no matter how long you spent there. 

Gwindor had made sure the rites were followed for Beleg Cúthalion. Gwindor had known him such a short time, yet had considered him dear. The silver-bright Sinda's good nature had lightened his spirits in the midst of heavy darkness. He was not yet entirely convinced that Beleg was truly dead; he had been so vibrantly alive, so hopeful. The shock of his loss was too new and too terrible. If not for the fact that he had buried Beleg himself, Gwindor would have been tempted to deny what had happened.

Gwindor had taken up Beleg's heavy sword. Not only had it seemed too great a weapon to leave behind, but he had had the oddest feeling that it did not _wish_ to be left behind. Its strange weight, like the weight of sorrow, added to his burden. He had felt obligated to bring it, along with some other few possessions that had been useful or indispensable. Gwindor carried as much as he was physically able to bear. He risked giving the rest to Túrin to carry on his back, in Beleg's bag.

There had been no question of taking Beleg's body away with them. This was a difficult enough trek for those who were whole and well. Túrin was weakened and his mind was clouded. All Gwindor's own power was dedicated to shepherding Túrin and keeping them both moving. _One more step._ If he considered walking as an inevitability, each new footfall was the consequence of the one before, and would happen because it must, rather than because he willed it. In this way, Gwindor gathered a kind of dull, mental momentum to keep himself moving. To keep _them_ moving.

There was nothing overtly welcoming about the shadowy woods of Taur-nu-Fuin, but beneath the trees, there was ample shelter and cover. It was a dangerous land, but less so than the waste to the north. Out on the broken hills and ash fields of Anfauglith, there were fewer places to hide, and Thangorodrim towered over the horizon with all its dread. Gwindor tried to conceal their presence in the forest as well as he could, but he could not afford to expend the energy to alter their course too much for the sake of secrecy.

They were fortunate that the Orcs who had taken Túrin had fled, but now they had to rely partly on luck to avoid any other patrols and pursuers. Gwindor had no faith in luck. What he could rely on was the sheer size of Taur-nu-Fuin. To find any one person lost within it would be a demanding task. The deep shadows and the bleak winds that ceaselessly stirred the leaves made tracking more difficult. The very violence and malice of the Enemy, which had blighted this land, worked in their favor in an unforeseen way. Gwindor was not precisely grateful for that, for the cost had been too steep.

As he continued to move southward, Gwindor still sensed the presence of the bodies beneath the ash to the north, those who had died on the dark day when the Enemy had sent forth his fires—and on other dark days after that. Taur-nu-Fuin was no refuge, but he was glad to leave that wasteland behind them and return again to a land of trees and other growing things. There was life in the wood, however shadowed.

It was a small relief to be surrounded by leaves and branches again after his long imprisonment. Whenever he inhaled, he took in the deep, green scent of the forest, not completely marred by Angband's creeping corruption. He was studying the leaves around him, reading the forest signs that Elven eyes knew well, when suddenly, Túrin seemed to wake from a dream. His body tensed, and he stopped short. Abruptly, he veered from their course, batting away Gwindor's guiding right hand. Gwindor was not fully prepared for this, but this was not the first time Túrin had attempted to leave him. Gwindor was able to rouse himself quickly enough to regain and tighten his grip on Túrin. "No, Túrin, no— Not that way." He put all the force he had into the words. "Stay with me."

Túrin moaned, but his protest abated. The stern words in Sindarin must have reached him through the veil of grief. Gwindor was relieved, because he did not know what he would do if Túrin truly broke away. How would he catch up to him?

Gwindor had no illusions about his own frailty. He had barely survived his own escape, and orchestrating a second one had drained the rest of his depleted energies. It was a pure wonder that they were alive, in the state they were in: one of the mysteries of this Age. What concerned Gwindor was the possibility that Túrin might recover a greater portion of his physical strength—without the accompanying strength of reason. He would be able to overpower and outpace Gwindor easily. If Túrin went back the way they had come, he was likely to be lost. Gwindor couldn't allow that to happen. If Túrin died, Beleg would have been slain for nothing.

Túrin, as if sensing Gwindor's thoughts, pulled away again, turning to look over his shoulder, back toward the waste of Anfauglith. He was facing the place, far behind them now, where Beleg lay beneath the earth—as deep as Gwindor had been able to dig with one hand. Beleg's body rested empty in his shallow grave, beside his great bow.

It pained Gwindor all the more to see Túrin look back so longingly. It tugged on something within him—maybe a portion of his _fëa_ that had been sickened by grief. Gwindor understood the wish to rejoin the lost one, the loved one. The impossible wish, to have him back. "We cannot go there. Come with me, " Gwindor urged. _Or we will die like Beleg._ He thought, but would not say Beleg's name. Túrin spoke of Beleg enough himself, without saying a word. His wide, staring eyes spoke, and his gasping breaths were more eloquent than any fine speech. 

Keeping words to a minimum for his own benefit and that of his charge, Gwindor addressed Túrin when he needed to move him on in the right direction, or to otherwise pierce the wall of his stupor. It was not that he had an aversion to Túrin or anger with him, but he could not be sure of the effect any particular words would have on him, so he took care. At times, the Man did not appear to understand anything, and then a mere word would make him weep or fall to his knees. He was mad with grief, and Gwindor did not know how to speak to him through his madness. He would have had a greater understanding of how to help if Túrin were an Elf. He was a Man and a stranger, and his ways of thinking were unknown to Gwindor.

For a long time, Túrin remained blessedly obedient, keeping pace with him mutely again. The two made little sound as they moved through the deep forest. Both of them had been raised in lands where stealth was taught to children along with their letters. Though Túrin had been speechless since their meeting, Gwindor knew a little of him and his upbringing, because of Beleg, and how fondly he had spoken of the Man.

 _When we meet in the Halls again, at last, what will I say to Beleg?_ He wanted his actions to be worthy of report. He could not tell Beleg that he had failed Túrin.  
He had met the Sinda once before: on the most dreadful of days, the dawn of the day of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He would not think of that horror, not now. The memory would steal even his endurance from him. Gwindor had hoped, upon encountering the Sinda again, that he had met a dear friend. To encounter someone so hopeful, and so kind, after his long, hopeless years in the darkness—it had been a miracle. It was like a star had risen before him in the middle of a starless night. Sadly, the miracle and the light had been obliterated by a new nightmare.

Gwindor tried, again, to banish from his mind the image of Beleg's bright mouth, spilling blood. Beleg's broken last words—not to him, but to Túrin: "Beloved—I— Do not—" His gaze had locked on Túrin's as the light faded from his eyes. His lips forced into a smile. "Blame—love."

It was a haunting memory. It had taken up residence in his mind greedily and maliciously, like a dragon in a cave. Túrin's lips were still dark with the blood from Beleg's lips, where he had kissed him. Túrin had wept into Beleg's hair. He had taken blood and given tears. 

The shadows, already much deeper here than was natural, were stretching out beneath the trees. Gwindor and Túrin had traveled so long through the woods without incident that Gwindor's vigilance had begun to fade, lulled by quiet and eroded by visions. He was not prepared when Túrin raised his shoulder sharply and his arm shot out. Gwindor was pushed off-balance and struggled to keep his footing. Túrin was already turning on his feet to face the wrong direction. To face the shadow in the north. Before Gwindor could react, he was running back the way they had come, all too quickly.

Gwindor had no choice. He had to run after him, sprinting through leaves and branches, hoping to catch his wayward Man. Pain burned in his chest and down his sides, and throbbed in what remained of his left arm. His weakness took his body in an iron grip and tried to pull him back sharply, but Gwindor kept running. Not fast enough, but he ran, his heart protesting, hammering against his ribs. _No, no, this cannot be._ He could not lose this Man. How long would Túrin run like this? Was he going to race all the long way back to where Beleg lay beneath the soil? Surely, the two of them would not survive such a journey. Not again.

Fortunately—if not painlessly—Túrin's run was so rash and reckless that after several minutes, a troublesome rise of root and a deceptive gathering of leaves conspired to bar his way. He tripped over the root, slipped on the leaves, and sprawled on the forest floor. Beleg's fell with a clang and came to rest beside its bearer. The metallic noise it made on falling was caused by the great helm. That was another object, like the sword, that was so ponderous with import and destiny, it was difficult for Gwindor to contemplate it for too long—so he did not. 

He cared more for Túrin's safety than that of the helm, and he did not so much as glance at it as he rejoined Túrin haltingly. His breathing was pained, his body burning. He sank to the ground slowly. He placed his one hand on Túrin again, as if that alone could hold him down. Once he regained control of his breath, he spoke. "You cannot go back. We cannot."

Túrin groaned in response, but he did not try to rise. He rolled over onto his back and stared up at the overhanging branches with a blank expression.

Gwindor, kneeling above him, gazed down on his companion's blood-smeared face with compassion. "I understand." Túrin's hair was a wild, dark frame for his face, curled around the leaves caught up in it. If not for the fact that his body did not hold the light of the Elves, Gwindor might have taken him for an Elf, for he was tall and his features were so fair. As Túrin grew calmer, Gwindor released him from the pressure of his hand. He reached out to one of the leaves trapped in Turin's hair and freed it from its prison.

Túrin flinched, but otherwise did not move.

"You do not want to live." Should he not speak so? He feared agitating Túrin, but he was beginning to understand him, after a fashion. The way he had raced back toward the Enemy, heedless of his own safety, his own life. Gwindor had done that, once. "I was once the same."

Túrin's eyes shifted, the unfocused gaze sliding toward Gwindor.

"But I want to live now, and I want you to live. There is not much of me left, but I wish to see my home again. I can still do that. Or I can at least see the green, free forest once again and know a moment of peace. I want you to see it, too."

Túrin was watching him, his gaze starting to focus, still expressionless. Gwindor added, on impulse, "If you do not want it anymore, give your life to me. I will take it." He did not know what inspired him to say such a thing. They were not words lightly said.

Túrin's body stiffened. Túrin's gaze suddenly snapped into sharp focus. Dark and bright; Gwindor felt those eyes look both deep into and all through him. 

Túrin had responded to his latest words as he had responded to nothing else Gwindor had said—not with his voice, but with his full attention. Gwindor did not know if he had said the exact right words or the exact wrong ones. "If your life is mine, then you must come with me. Follow where I lead." If Túrin truly did not want his life, perhaps he would be glad to have someone else agree to take it on for him.

Túrin blinked. He did not speak, but he wore enough of an expression now that Gwindor could guess—not at the details of his thoughts, but that he had listened and understood what was said to him.

"Yes. Come." Gwindor did not want to rise to his feet. He would have liked to rest for a long, long time, and his body cried out for that. To rest and never rise again. Yet he rose. He had risen to his feet so many times when he had thought it impossible. It was still impossible, yet he did so nonetheless.

"Come with me now." He spoke to Túrin almost as if he were an animal to coax and beckon—but not. _No, he's nothing like that. He has a greatness of mind and heart, but a shadow has fallen on him. If he is to come out of it, he will have to heed me. That is why I must speak directly to him. I must call for him, as over a great distance, with simple words, so he can hear me in that place that is so dark and far away._

Túrin had come of age where Quenya was forbidden, but Gwindor spoke Sindarin with ease, and it was the only tongue he had found that could reach Túrin. Túrin did not speak, but Túrin rose. Túrin allowed Gwindor to settle the weight of the bag again on his shoulders. Túrin came with him all in willingness now, no longer protesting against his guidance. Gwindor was grateful for the compliance. It made this trial easier. 

Gwindor was more perturbed by his own actions, for words had power, be they in Quenya or Sindarin, and he had said something irrevocable. _What have I done? I cannot take on another's life, when I can barely survive my own._

Gwindor did not consider himself a leader, but he led Túrin, for it was his duty. Once before, Gwindor had led himself and his comrades into ruin, but he would not mention this to Túrin. It took all his power to focus on moving forward again, now that his strength had been tested further. _Another step. Step_. 

He led them forward, to the limit of his endurance and beyond. His vigilance would not let them rest, not yet. He could not be sure they would not be pursued. His wariness may have been born out of his long captivity of fear or his own straightforward practicality. No matter its origins, it would be best for them to get as far as possible from that terrible place where so many horrors had found their home, as soon as they were able. Gwindor may have carried a sword, but he was unsure whether he could fight off attackers. He hoped he would not have to learn the truth of it.

"Another step," he murmured, to himself and Túrin. "One more, that's all."

And then there would be another, after that.


	2. Through the Forest Under Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grim adventures of Gwindor continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be only two chapters, but I'm expanding the story into a third (upcoming) chapter. **Edit:** The story is now going to be _four_ chapters, but that's definitely the final total.
> 
> Gwindor’s memories of the Mereth Aderthad are inspired by @houndsofvalinor-art's tumblr Tolkien Secret Santa gift to me. I was so inspired by it, that I wanted to include it somehow. You can see the art [here on tumblr](https://houndsofvalinor-art.tumblr.com/post/638375276713213952/my-officialtolkiensecretsanta-contribution-at).

Their journey was torturous, not only with dread, but in its sameness. Gwindor and Túrin walked without pause out of necessity. Endurance had become a habit, if an unhappy one. Gwindor's heart was too heavy to find beauty in the landscape, for they were still too close to the darkness. They did not spy any encouraging or outstanding features in the wood. The trees cast their shadows over twisted roots and rocky earth as Túrin and Gwindor walked at their punishingly slow pace. The shadows here had their own life and moved in unexpected ways. More than once, their shifting made Gwindor start, in the fear that they had been discovered by the Enemy.

Exposure and hunger were as present as the shadows, especially for the mortal Man. Beleg had carried provisions with him, but much had been lost in the confusion, and Gwindor was sparing with what was left. Gwindor had little time or energy to spare for foraging. If they came across plants he knew they could consume, he would pause long enough to make Túrin eat and consume a small amount himself. He pulled up roots and stripped the bark from trees for them. Most of what he found by chance in this way was bitter to taste, but these bitter morsels were enough to keep them from starving. He kept a close watch on Túrin, looking for any signs of illness or pain. There was also the pressing matter of water. So near the waste, the land was still more arid than it should be.

When Gwindor heard the soft voice of water from a distance, he felt his spirits rise. _A river._ Gwindor's pace quickened with hope, and he knelt at its banks. He studied the current with care. He let his fingertips ghost over the surface of it, concentrating. Like most Elves, he could sense corruption if it were strong enough. If the water had been too much tainted at some point along its route, they could not drink it. He knew of water that was so poisoned, it would kill those who tasted it, or send them into a deep delirium. His senses told him that this water was clean enough, so he scooped it up in his hand and drank. Túrin did not follow suit, but blankly watched him drinking.

Gwindor beckoned, bidding Túrin to lower himself. The Man crouched obediently, but then would not drink, so Gwindor himself scooped water into his mouth. It was only when the cupped hand brought water directly to his lips that he reacted. Blinking, he let it slip between his lips, then belatedly swallowed. Still, he would not kneel to drink, and Gwindor realized he would have to repeat the process a number of times. Though caring for Túrin presented him with such difficulties, the fact that Túrin had ceased attempting to escape made the extra effort seem bearable and possible.

Once they had refreshed themselves at the river, Gwindor decided they would follow it, as its course led both southward and westward. He was not familiar enough with this land to guess how long they could use the river as a guide, but it was a start, and it would be useful if they could keep close to a reliable source of water.

Not until he had reached the coldest, farthest limit of his endurance—on the verge of collapsing—did Gwindor bid Túrin rest. He was not sure if Túrin would have thought to rest on his own. With words and gestures, he convinced the Man to lie down on the softest part of the hard ground. It was not the best or safest place to sleep, but there was no best and no safety here. Gwindor was too weary to search for an optimal spot that might never appear.

Once he had finally allowed himself to stop moving, his body went limp. He could only hope no enemies would find them while they were in this state. How long had they been traveling this way? He no longer knew. For a time, he had been moving in something like a trance, roused from it now and again by necessity. He had not so much lost track as failed to keep track from the beginning. Why should he, when time did not matter to them anymore? They had passed outside of time. Sorrow and long toil had pushed them to a place apart.

They rested side by side for warmth. Gwindor could hear the river's soft and fluid song from where they lay. It was his solitary comfort. Gwindor remained still and silent, but Túrin shifted and muttered and moaned in his sleep, unable to find true rest. 

Gwindor had aided Beleg, because all Elves were kin, in spite of their differences. He sorrowed for him, as he sorrowed to know that any Elf had died. Gwindor may have met Beleg before, and he may have known of his great deeds, but he had not known him as Túrin had, to grieve as Túrin did. Gwindor had met Beleg before when the forces of the Elves had gathered for the battle that would be known as the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, but he continued to avoid the haunted memory. Once before that he had glimpsed him—at the Mereth Aderthad.

The Mereth Aderthad was a far finer and brighter memory. Gwindor had not spoken to the Sinda then, but he had drawn so near to the representatives of Doriath. Later, the tales would tell that only Mablung and Daeron had been sent from Thingol's forest realm, but Gwindor knew better, now. The silver-haired Elf who had been at Mablung's side had had a strong and suspicious resemblance to Beleg. Gwindor, now that he knew Beleg's face so well, was certain Beleg had accompanied his compatriot without his lord's knowledge. It seemed like something he would do—he had been so lively and so difficult to deter.

There had been many great Elves present at that feast, and all had been merry and full of hope. The landscape had been alive with flowers of violet and white, the trees bursting with green. Gwindor had heard the fierce and fair musics of Macalaurë and Daeron as they had played together—a display of musical skill and art unparalleled in the history of the Eldar. Gwindor and his party had received the blessing of Ñolofinwë himself. Gwindor—much to his joy and surprise—had been seated beside Nelyafinwë at the feast and had broken bread with him. As he had long admired the eldest son of Fëanor for his learning and his valor in battle, this unlooked for honor had shaken him deeply. 

Nelyafinwë had been both kind and thoughtful, asking about him and his family with such interest. Remembering their conversation could still make Gwindor smile, even now that he had passed beyond the realm of hope. Nelyafinwë, he was sure, would understand his current predicament, perhaps as no other could. He did not want to think too much on their similar experiences now, remembering instead the way the sunlight had fallen through the leaves, and the way it had glittered on the surface of the Pools of Ivrin, more beautiful than any golden jewelry. 

Gwindor had had the honor of introducing Nelyafinwë to Gelmir and Finduilas. For a brief time, the four of them had conversed gladly about music, the forest, and their hopes for the future. The memory of that conversation was more golden than the fall of sunlight. Gwindor's brother and his betrothed had remained close to Gwindor's side throughout the feast and the attendant festivities. 

If Gwindor concentrated, he could still hear the sweet sound of Finduilas singing. He could still see her dancing on the shores of the pool. He could hear Gelmir laughing. He could see him raising his bow to join in one of the many contests of skill. For weeks and months afterward, they had spoken of little other than the Mereth Aderthad. That time would forever remain treasured and bright, in spite of the fire that came afterward. The fire that had robbed them of their joy.

Strange that he was returning to the Pools of Ivrin now—the site of that fair feast—under these dire circumstances, which he could never have dreamed of during those golden days. He was thankful he had not known of the shadow that lay ahead of him. He had been able to enjoy the company of Elves, especially that of Finduilas and Gelmir. Yet he could not remain within that memory for long, as another one soon swept in to banish it.

What pained Gwindor greatly was that Túrin's grief was so deep, it brought his own loss repeatedly to mind. How he had believed Gelmir dead all those years. How he had not realized the bitter truth until the moment he watched Gelmir die before his eyes. The axe, the spray of blood. He had been unable to save him. It had not been possible by any means. Gelmir had been too far from him, but his heart had not believed it. In his mind, Gwindor was still crossing that distance: the space between himself and his fallen brother. Wind in his face, tears in his eyes, and curses on his lips. 

His fateful charge had led so many to their deaths. He knew every detail of that distance, could have measured it out, could have described every last centimeter of it. He knew the story of each grain of soil he had passed over. Over and over his charge played in the back of his mind, as it had so many times before. Never was he able to stop it, no matter how he tried to ignore it or drown it out. It was a moment he could not leave, because a part of him lived within it. 

Gwindor closed his eyes. In spite of the fact that he could walk and breathe and talk and reason, he was very near death. He and Túrin both were now, but he had been so for many years. When Elves were near death, they could see the world as a whole more clearly, because their spirits were on the verge of departing their bodies. It was not a matter of seeing the future. It was a growing sense of distance from one's body and life, which led to a deeper understanding of the world as separate from oneself. When a point of view was so expanded, one realized things no one could know when bound more tightly to life. In that state, you saw the present in so many details from far above. It became easier to see the way events, even those physically distant from you, were likely to play out. That was why, before death, an Elf might make a proclamation like a prophecy, and their prediction would later come to pass.

_My spirit is about to leave my body_ , said Gwindor clearly and calmly to himself. He had told himself the same many times over during his captivity. It was both comfort and torment. Elves could will themselves to die, if their will and need were strong enough and no force prevented them. Gwindor had that possibility of escape before him. There had been moments he had believed death his only likely escape—whether he chose it or had it forced upon him. In spite of his moments of despair, he had not let himself fade. He had been tempted, but part of him had been too stubborn to admit defeat, in spite of everything he had experienced. He had always been stubborn. 

Each time he had thought of his spirit flying free, Gwindor had next repeated to himself, _Let my flesh keep my spirit. I must live_. He was not ready to die. He had yet to redeem himself for his actions: for failing to protect his brother, and for leading so many brave, fine Elves to their deaths.

Not only did he wish for redemption, but as he had told Túrin, he wanted to see home again. He wanted to see those he loved. When he closed his eyes, he might witness that vision of the bloody death of his brother, but he might also glimpse Finduilas dancing on the shore of a clear pool, the light reflected from the water playing in her hair. That was a fair sight, and one he would not care to lose. Now it was possible he might see it again, in this lifetime.

_I must live._ He had hoped the rescue of Túrin might lead him closer to redemption, yet it had gone so terribly. Túrin had been saved, but the cost had been too steep and too cruel. Was there a way he could have prevented the tragedy? He did not see how, but he wished he had. He could not change what had happened; he could only do whatever was possible with what was left to him.

Gwindor was at last able to sleep, but only lightly, rest disturbed by his own turmoil. Beside him, Túrin shifted in his sleep again. Gwindor tensed as an arm slid around his waist. Túrin’s cracked lips pressed against his cheek. His breath was hot and smelled of blood above all else. Metal and sharp, Mannish and Elven. Túrin was marked with Beleg’s blood as well as his own. Gwindor had not had the strength to try washing him yet. Túrin did not truly smell like a Man any longer, so much as he smelled like blood. It was a worry, where predators were concerned, but it was not their greatest worry.

Túrin’s kisses against his cheek were almost painful in their softness. They were odd, but Gwindor oddly did not mind them. There was a chastity in them, and Túrin knew not what he did in his delirium. This affection was not meant for Gwindor. 

When Gwindor had realized Túrin and Beleg were wed, it was with a growing sense of horror. Not because he objected to the union of those two, or of Man and Elf in general, but because the thought of any person slaying their own mate was unthinkable. It must be a pain beyond pain, and Gwindor did not know how anyone could endure it. 

From one moment to the next, it was difficult to guess what Túrin was aware of, since he would not speak. It was possible he could mistake Gwindor for Beleg—though the two of them looked alike primarily in the sense that they were both Elves. That was why Gwindor did not fault him for these affectionate, gentle gestures. Perhaps it was wrong not to try to wake Túrin and disabuse him of his confusion, but Túrin seemed to derive a measure of comfort from the closeness. He had stopped moaning in pain and tossing in his sleep, if only temporarily. Gwindor chose not to deny him that. He needed to rest. 

This ordeal would not last forever. He knew its limit, because from the beginning, he had one clear destination in mind. If they could elude the Enemy and misadventure, they would reach the crystal pools of Ivrin. There, their minds would be made as clear as the water, and their long torment would be eased. Perhaps the pools would even work some healing on him, securing his spirit more firmly to his body and ending the vague and haunting sense of the future that had haunted him for years.

Gradually, Gwindor became aware of a low, faint vibration in the earth. Túrin, perhaps sensing the same, restlessly rolled away from him, onto his side. Gwindor was unsettled too, and he sat up. He was so exhausted that he wanted nothing more than sleep, but he had to find the source of the vibration. He initially thought it came from the ground beneath him, but no. His hand went to his waist. There was the sword, at his belt. As heavy as it was, he had grown used to its weight, and he had not had the presence of mind to set it aside. Its sheath was quaking, faintly yet unmistakably. This was unsettling. He could not allow it to go on without investigating, no matter how he craved rest. To avoid disturbing Túrin, he rose and stepped away from him—though not so far that he was out of sight.

He touched his fingertips to the sheath of the sword, as he had to the river, searching for corruption in it. He found none, but there was something there—He felt a strong sense of presence, as of a person standing beside him. Slowly, he unsheathed the blade, then set it down on the ground before him. He knelt, to be closer to it. Then, his hand went to his belt. He had a small pouch there which contained something very special. He withdrew it slowly and carefully: a chain of crystals that gave off a beautiful, blue glow. It was a strand he had broken off from one of the Fëanorian lamps the Enemy hoarded. He had stolen it before his escape, so he would always have a light in the dark. 

The lamps, which took the form of crystal nets, were given to the Noldor to use while mining, but well-secured by the Enemy when not in use—chained as if they were prisoners, too. The chains were unusually strong, and the crystals could not be shattered, but Gwindor had managed to break off a strand of the one he usually used. It had taken long planning and careful, subtle weakening of the net's structure. 

The wood's darkness was partly natural, but augmented by Morgoth's spite. The crystals would light any shadowed place, even if the darkness was of the Enemy's making. Their brightness made Gwindor's spirit a little brighter, too. As he held out the crystals, Gwindor watched their light gleam across the surface of the blade. It was dark in color, and he could not identify the metal it had been made of. There was something unnatural and almost willful about the way the metal reflected the blue Fëanorian light. Gwindor had never seen another blade like this black sword. It was so cleverly made that the blade, guard, and hilt seemed to be all a single piece of metal, seamless and whole. The edge was so impossibly sharp that Gwindor's eyes could not quite discern where it ended.

As he examined the blade curiously, he suddenly seized up in fear. A voice sounded in his mind, flat of tone but insistent:

_Eöl, he made me  
Beleg, he chose me  
Gwindor, he saved me  
But who will wield me?_

It was as if the sword spoke—but how could a sword do that? Some swords had power, but that a sword should have a voice was not a possibility he had heard of, even in a story or ancient history. He was inclined to believe it nonetheless, because the longer he looked at the sword, the more difficult it was for him to deny the presence emanating from it. 

_Gwindor, he saved me_. Was the blade aware of him in some way, and grateful? He had saved the sword, in a sense. It would have been much easier for him to leave it behind, along with the great helm. They were both burdens. In fact, it would have been far easier for him to have left Túrin behind as well. Or to have refused to aid Beleg at all. He had not done what was easiest, but when had he ever done that? 

Gwindor had barely begun to process his current situation, when the sword spoke again. 

_Beleg my master  
Slain in the wasteland  
When I awakened  
Túrin his killer._

The sword was—it was almost singing to him. There was a rhythm to its words in his head. It was like a grave poem, and also a dirge. "I know he did not mean to," Gwindor felt compelled to say, in Túrin's defense. "It grieves him so greatly." He understood, then: the sword grieved, too. It was sorry for what it had done, and that was why its presence and its voice were so strong. It wanted, needed to be heard. "And you—you did not mean to, did you?"

The sword did not precisely respond to him, but there was brief delay before it continued into another verse: 

_Túrin, the bloodstained  
Túrin, of ill-fate  
Túrin, the Man-Elf,   
Túrin will bear me._

"Yes, I—I will give you to him," said Gwindor. "I don't intend to keep you for myself."

Should he have been more surprised to find himself in conversation with a sword? For some time, the sense of being _fated_ had hung on him. As painful as his own tale had been, it had become caught up within another: a tale of destinies and swords that spoke, of helmets and grim magic, and of deep sorrow. Gwindor was so tired of being caught up in a story. He wanted it to reach its end, so he could rest. As weary as he was, he was not as astounded by these events as another might have been, because that strange, Elven foresight had taken him over and changed him. He had lived too long in the shadow of death. He could not say when he would emerge from it again.

Gwindor waited for many long minutes in the dark, but the sword had no more words for him. It must have said all it meant to say. No sword would speak lightly or idly. They must be sharp and direct, like the weapons they were. Gwindor could not say why the sword's brief verses made him feel like weeping, but, still kneeling, he leaned forward and wept. When had he last shed tears? When did he last have the water to spare?


End file.
